


One Case

by crush (beekeepercain)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adopted Sam, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 17:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9134812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/pseuds/crush
Summary: Dean lost his brother in the same fire that killed his mother. Or did he?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Request! This was... really difficult, mostly because I can't be brief. How do you fit a whole story in so few words? Either way - I hope you'll enjoy it <3

* * *

 

The heat's leaking through the windows and clinging to the walls around Dean. He shifts in the couch and smiles at the woman, accepting a cup of coffee from her. The funeral's boring, and with no word from John for two days, he still doesn't know what he's doing here. There doesn't seem to be a case relating to it - the old man died of a heart attack. Big freaking deal. Yet here he is, posing as Jake Clapton the long-lost nephew of the deceased, and he's enjoying the good parts of the party: the food, and the actual grandson of the man now peacefully laid six feet under. Really, it feels like Dean's never gotten along with anyone as well as he gets along with the bookish, quiet Samuel - or Sam, as he insists on being called - and somehow, even Sam's sister, as gorgeous a blonde as she happens to be, doesn't manage to keep Dean interested if there's a chance in hell he could instead be spending that time with Sam himself. The guy's tall, just a couple inches taller than Dean himself, and he looks pretty good with his suit on... not that Dean's looking. Or at least, not that Dean anytime, anywhere else would be looking. But Dean today?

He's looking.

Sam's weary. When he thinks no one's looking, he wipes his forehead with a napkin and shoves it back inside the pocket of his black pants, and he tries in vain to relieve the heat gathering underneath his suit jacket by fanning it out and letting it fall back down. Dean's not blaming him. The house is like an oven, and the outdoors? Not much better. Midsummer sunlight seems scorching today, and there's little to no relief from it anywhere.

"Mom?" Sam utters when the guests have toured by him and given him their condolences, "Can I leave? I'm having a heatstroke. I'm sorry, I would stay, but - I don't think I'm kidding."

The mother of the family looks him up and down and sighs, nodding.  
"Take a shower and cool off for a couple hours. This madness will be here when you get back to it," she tells him quietly.

Dean finds himself standing up. He finishes the cinnamon roll and his coffee, too hot to drink but too caffeinated to pass either, and finds himself shifting through the crowd to Sam.

"Mind some company?" Dean asks him as they slip towards the corridor and the only way out.

Sam chuckles.  
"I'd love some," he tells Dean in return.

They walk out the door and into the blazing sunlight, take a turn for the garage and Sam's room built just above it. It's a cozy, small room, and Sam's had it since he was a kid - it's obvious that nobody planned for him to grow like a young tree, as most of the ceiling's now too low for him to stand straight under. But it's a nice room with a nice, soft bed set beside a small window letting out to the driveway, directly beside an old oak; its leaves provide enough shade to make the bed, at least, a good spot to lie on during days like this. There are pictures on the walls, some of them polaroids with text on them marking the occasion, others posters from whichever geek thing Sam's partaken in over the years, and on the table beside his computer, a few trophies from his soccer career sit in plain view as if to remind anyone looking that despite being a genius of some sort, this guy's also made of pure trained muscle.

So's Dean, but for a different purpose: his build makes sure that he survives a hunt. Sam's, on the other hand, is built on passion. They look different in that aspect at least, even if they're not all that unlike in other characteristics. Dean looks like a fighter - Sam just looks like a damn magazine cover.

"Want a coke?" Sam asks him, already bending to his mini-fridge set underneath the table.

Dean catches the flying can mid-air and opens it with a satisfied grunt. After a long sip, he places the can on the table and throws aside his funeral jacket.

"Enough of this," he chuckles, and Sam chuckles with him, nodding.

It's then that Dean first glimpses it. As Sam draws off his jacket, the sleeve of his collared white shirt - almost the same as Dean's - gets bent and reveals his wrist. And there's a mark there, a mark that makes Dean's heart skip a beat: it's a spiralling, tattoo-like black birthmark. He's never seen a person with one - no one else but himself, anyway.

"Hey, uh," he chokes, tilting his head and pointing in the direction of Sam's wrist.

Quickly, Sam reaches his hand to cover up the mark, and he straightens his sleeve back over it looking flustered and uncertain.  
"Um, yeah. That. It's - well, you know what it is, I guess. It means - I've got a soulmate. I've never seen anyone with a mark like this, though, so... maybe I'll never find them, heh. Who knows."

Dean swallows. Suddenly, he can feel his own arm burning under his sleeve, and he rests his palm over it much like Sam's holding his; slowly, Sam's eyes dart towards him, perhaps looking for a reason for his silence or just for reassurance. More often than not, people take the news weird. It's why Dean, too, keeps his arm covered.

"I guess... we're pretty rare, huh," Dean finally manages to say, grinning nervously.  
He lifts his sleeve just a little bit to show about the same amount of skin that Sam did, and then he hides it quickly. He knows what comes next, but he's not sure he's prepared for it. What's the worst case scenario - that their markings don't match, or that they do?

Sam seems frozen solid for a moment. Then he kneels back down to his fridge and pulls out another coke, places it on the table, and sets his jacket on the back of his chair, much unlike Dean, whose jacket sits on the bed, cast aside like a wet towel.

"Um," Sam says, "Should we - I mean, we should, right?"

Dean nods stiffly and tries to laugh it off, but he feels like his throat is full of tar.  
"Right," he manages to respond, "We... yeah. Can I - see yours, first?"

Sam smiles, and his smile seems a little sad. Shrugging, he starts unbuttoning his shirt, and Dean feels like a bucket of ice water has suddenly been cast inside him despite the day's heat: Sam's isn't just a mark on his wrist, either. It's arm-length at least; Dean's own is up to his bicep. It might still reach all the way over onto his shoulder or chest, and if the length doesn't match, the rest won't, either - but when Sam opens his shirt, there are no marks on his chest. Nor are there on his shoulders, either, when he lets the thing fall loose; the shirt crawls down his arm, revealing intricate markings all the way up to his bicep, and not an inch above.

Dean feels a shudder coming, and it isn't all just because of the mark, either.

"Right," he breathes out, his voice betraying the shivers rushing through him, "Right. My turn, huh."

Slowly, he pulls off his own shirt until they're both standing there half-naked, and their markings mirror perfectly if not in design, then at least in length, colour and appearance. Sam's details are different, but Dean figures it's still possible they match - each of them should be unique, right? Soulmates or not, they're still two different people. At least... in theory.

"Yours looks... different," Sam points it out, "Do you think...?"

Dean shrugs.

"To be honest, I'm kind of scared to try it," Sam confesses with a nervous laughter.

Dean joins it.  
"Yeah," he admits, "Me, too."

"What if they match?" Sam asks, and Dean can see him shiver, too.

"What if they don't? I mean, hell."

"Yeah. This is - this is pretty freaky."

"You don't say."

"Alright, um. Should we?"

"Yeah, I - I think we should."

Instead of moving forwards, Dean takes a couple steps back and lands on the bed instead. It's the safest bet: whatever happens next, he's not sure his legs will carry him through it. Sam nods as if to a suggestion and follows him there, and he sits next to Dean with something of a safety gap between them, and it seems that they're both suddenly nervous to be too close to each other.

"Okay," Sam starts, "So we just - we just touch and that's it, right?"

Dean nods.  
"I think so. They should - do something if they match. If they don't, we'll just feel stupid shaking hands."

"Yeah," Sam chuckles; he reaches his shaking hand out and turns towards Dean, seeking eye contact with him.

Dean gives it to him and feels his heartbeat grow quicker. Through the oak's leaves, the hazel of Sam's eyes glows like amber: Dean has to swallow to get his breath moving again.

"Alright," he mutters through the racing inside his chest, "Here goes nothing."

Their fingertips touch, and Dean can feel it right away. Something in him shifts. His entire being seems to vibrate with something, a deep sensation reaching right into his bones and more, engulfing him, as their hands join. There's a moment of stillness, but even through it he can already see the markings move, and suddenly, there's a river running through him. The marks all over his arm grow, twisting and turning all over his wrists, palms and fingers, meeting seamlessly with Sam's, and a short gasp leaves one of them but Dean can't tell which it is, or if it's both. Somehow, it feels like there's no more skin between them, like they're one and whole, and he's hearing Sam's heart beating right alongside his own as if the same blood courses through them.

And then, just like that, Sam's gone. He's stood up and he's pacing the floor, wrestling his hand, gorgeous lips parted and nostrils flaring. He throws a glance at Dean and he's sheet-white, and Dean can _still_ hear his heart despite there being multiple feet between the two of them.

There's nothing to say. Nothing has prepared Dean for this. He's never had a talk about it - what would happen if he meets the one who carries the other half of his mark, if that would change anything for him and John. In fact, for most of his life, John's ignored the entire thing as if it scared him, and based on the way most people react... maybe he does fear it. He would be far from the only one. And right now? Right now, as Dean presses his hand over the markings that are slowly fading back to normal on his skin, he fears it too.

But there's one thing that he doesn't fear. Being one with Sam of all people - hell, he feels sated. Content. Relieved, somehow. If it's got to be someone, then Sam - and maybe that's how it's meant to feel. Maybe that's exactly how he should feel about meeting his soulmate. Relieved. Happy.

Happy?

Yeah, he's happy.

A stupid smile breaks on his face and he laughs, and Sam stops on his tracks and looks at him and for a moment he looks like he's about to cry, but then he's laughing, too; they're both cackling like idiots, bending over, Dean on the bed and Sam collapsing on the floor in slow-motion.

"Can you believe it?" Sam asks him, breathless.

"Can _you_ believe it?" Dean asks him in return.

And then, there's a silence.  
"But, uh," Sam proceeds, "We're - um. I mean, we're cousins, right?"

Suddenly, Dean's flustered. His ears are flaring red like an ugly Christmas sweater and he lets out a sound of discomfort.

"Actually," he breathes out, "I'm not - related to anyone here. My Dad and me, we work - cases, we check out these suspicious deaths and make sure they're nothing to worry about, and just - I'm... basically, I'm here to spy on you, and, uh, I'm sorry."

"You - what? You're here to investigate Grandpa's death?" Sam asks, his brows lifting.

Dean grimaces.  
"Yeah," he mutters, looking down, "But there's nothing there - it's just a heart attack. Nothing suspicious."

"So your Dad's like a detective or something."

Slowly, Dean nods. He feels awful about lying to Sam, especially now, but telling him about the real world right after what just happened doesn't seem like the best course of action.

"Why'd you think there was something suspicious about it?"

Dean's ears, if possible, seem to grow even hotter than before.  
"Someone contacted Dad about it and he told me to go and check it out. I don't know who it was. I'm sorry, I wish I could - but as I said, there's... it's all good. He died peacefully and whatnot, just as it states on the doctor's papers."

Sam looks suspicious, but the suspicion fades into relief soon enough. Dean's thankful that he's letting it drop for now: he knows it's not the last of it, but before John tells him what the hell's he doing there? He can't really offer Sam a better explanation, either.

"I guess you're not telling the truth about your name then either, uh, Jake," Sam grunts with a hint of displeasure mixing in with a grand sense of curiosity in his voice.

Dean hesitates.  
"It's Dean," he says then, "Scout's honor."

"You're not a scout either, are you," Sam laughs, and Dean laughs with him.

"Sorry to disappoint," he says, "Damn - now that I know, I wish - I wish I wouldn't have come here lying about everything. But I had to. You'll - you'll understand, once Dad gets here and we..."

Explain? Hell, they'd have a lot to explain. Suddenly, a sense of dread floods back into Dean.

"Fuck," he mutters.

"What?" Sam asks him, and he's finally moving back on the bed next to him.

"Dad. I just - what if he doesn't care that - that you're my soulmate? What if he drags me off again? We basically live on the road because of the job, it's - how I've been my whole life, Sam. Ever since my Mom and my baby brother died in a housefire when I was a kid."

A flash of pain crosses Sam's features.  
"I'm sorry, Dean," he says gently, and for once, Dean doesn't deflect the kindness.

"Thanks," he replies awkwardly, "I guess - I mean, you just lost your Grandpa and all that, so I should be the one -"

"No," Sam cuts him off, "No, it's fine. You've lost people, too. At least I've only ever lost my grandparents. I mean..."

He's quiet for a moment, and a crooked smile lingers on him through that silence.

"I mean, truth be told? I'm adopted. I don't know anything about my biological parents. But I've never felt it was - you know, I never felt the big need to chase after them or anything. I'm happy with just what I've got here. I've got a good family here, and I don't need more than that. So what if my biological parents didn't want me? My real parents do, and they're right here. You know?"

He looks at Dean with a hopeful expression, and Dean finds himself nodding.

"You know, it's not about the blood," Dean says despite feeling a crushing sensation of shame at the cliché, "It's about the bond, right?"

Sam smiles regardless. He nods, looking somewhat excited again, before he throws himself back on the bed.

"So," he laughs a little awkwardly, "We're _not_ cousins. That's a relief, at least."

"But you're still a dude," Dean laughs, "I mean, that's a little awkward. I always imagined my soulmate as a tall, busty redhead, and you're not that."

Sam laughs, too.  
"I guess."

There's a moment of silence between them, one that they spend looking at one another. A strange sensation like a pull lingers inside Dean, and he finds himself leaning in: it feels natural, and it should, right? This is his soulmate. Isn't this how he's meant to feel right now?

To his relief, the pull seems mutual. Sam's leaning towards him, too, but there's a slight frown on his features, and he breathes out through the inviting gap between his lips, eyes closing. Dean reaches out and strokes his hair back, the dark curls that frame his face, and he finds himself tracing the mole beside Sam's nose feeling like it should be familiar to him by now. Like everything about Sam should just come back to him, as if they'd met before; he chuckles to the feeling as the distance between them disappears, and all he senses is the taste and texture of Sam's mouth against him.

Yeah - it feels right. It feels right to be close to him, and Dean would be lying if he claimed he didn't want more. Their hands join again, but the feeling of being one doesn't return the same way it did before, although Dean can feel his markings shifting to meet Sam's as if burning all over his skin again. He knows they're joining, but it's simply not enough the second time around: he needs, wants, more than this.

Sam's a good kisser. He leans against Dean and pushes him down on the bed, and Dean can feel a smile on him; he dares to peek at him, and there's still that frown there right alongside the smile, and it makes Dean chuckle.

"What's up with you?" he breathes into the kiss, and Sam's already shifting to kiss at his neck instead - his mouth crawls over the shape of Dean's jaw and lands over the sensitive side of his neck, making Dean end his sentence with a gasp.

"'s just funny," Sam mumbles against him, "How right this feels. How - I'd never... do this with a stranger, not like... not like this, but when it's you, I feel like..."

"We've known forever, right? And at the same time, like it's..."

"New," Sam finishes for him.  
His teeth nip at Dean's skin and Dean can't hold back the moan - nor the jump of his hips towards Sam, craving to be touched.

The damn tight black pants he's wearing are getting only more so by the moment.

"Want you," Dean hears himself confess, and Sam nods into his shoulder where his mouth's leaving marks now.

He shifts, his leg moving over Dean until he's sitting there on top of him, and his hips press right into Dean's, causing him to rock back up against the newly discovered weight and warmth. A muffled moan escapes Sam, and his lips turn for Dean's ear next; he sucks at it, the tip of his nose brushing against Dean's skin, and the combined sensation of these things alongside his hot breaths make Dean shiver like mad again.

"Need you," Sam returns his words to him, his voice hoarse and shaky as if with nerves.

Dean strokes his fingers through the other's hair and smiles, pulling him back just to look at him. His palm cradles Sam's face and fits there perfectly, and he can feel him trembling against him even as they stay still.

"You really want this, right?" he asks, taking mixed signals from Sam's words and the tension in his body.

Sam nods, letting out a breathless laughter.  
"I do," he confirms, "I just - it's so much at once, you know? Finding out what we are, not even knowing you and yet needing you this much, and I just - I hope - I want this to last. And I don't know if it can. I don't know anything, but I just..."

"You just hope, right? I feel the same. Trust me, I - I'm not really that good with words, but I don't ever wanna lose you."

The word _again_ nearly slips past Dean's guard, but it's silly; he's never had Sam before, so he can't lose him _again._ And still, that's exactly how it feels. To drive away the conflict he feels, Dean moves to kiss Sam again, and Sam's breath lingers over his lips, the taste of their kiss a diluted mix of the aftertaste of warm coke and fresh saliva. They rock together more aggressively now, and it seems they feel the same about it - both as needy, both as driven, to feel as if their bodies are one again. This seems the only way to go about it, and it comes naturally, like they've prepared for it without even knowing it for a long while before this moment. Dean's fingers rush down to find Sam's belt as it keeps digging into his lower abdomen in a painful manner, and Sam lifts up just enough to let him deal with it. His hands feel clumsy as he wrestles with it, but Sam just laughs again, reaching down with one hand to relieve Dean of his own belt: they're wearing similar ones, but Sam's twice as fast getting Dean's off and out of the way. He doesn't stop there, either. Dean's breath catches in his throat when he feels his fly open, and he lets out a held-back groan as he pushes towards Sam to feel his warmth and friction through that one last layer separating them. That same moment, his fingers finally manage to slip the man's belt off, and once his body's landed back on the mattress, he doesn't waste a second tearing open Sam's pants as well. His fingers move underneath the waistband of his black underwear and he tugs at them, trying to move it all aside at once, and Sam humours him, managing to slip out of them for Dean.

He feels amazing there in the nude, sitting on top of Dean, and as Dean's hands settle over his waist, he can't help but stare: he's never been with a man before, but none of this feels weird at all to him. Sam's beautiful and flustered with his chest and collarbones, cheeks and the tip of his nose all coloured in with blush, and his mouth's red and his lips look kissed and wet, and Dean just can't get enough of it so he leans onto his hands and pulls himself up to claim the man's mouth again. They kiss, and this time, it's more searching than before - more exploration than anything else, as if they both just want to get familiar with one another's taste and the shapes of their mouths together. Carefully, Sam tugs down Dean's pants, too, and Dean's all too aware of it happening, all too aware of every inch of skin revealed under the other's touches, and he tries his hardest to stay still until they're both naked against each other. A door slams somewhere outside, and whether it's a car door or the front door, Dean can't tell; they both freeze for a moment as if waiting for someone to enter, but of course, nobody does.

Chuckling, Sam rests back over Dean's legs, and he brushes his hair back off of his sweaty forehead, grinning down at Dean. He catches his breath, their eyes never leaving one another's, and then he moves back down against Dean, letting out a low, purring sound as the distance between their bodies turns to nothing. Trembling, Dean wraps his arms around Sam, and they rock together: it's as if they know exactly how to move for it to be perfect, and there's no awkward fumbling around trying to find the right pace together. They simply slip into it right away, as if that rhythm was always in them, just waiting to surface, and the friction against Dean's cock feels near as heavenly as the blissful sensation of unity crawling over him all over again. He feels as if he's drowning in it, as if his whole being is just melting into Sam's, as if there's no skin between them and their blood is the same blood and their hearts are just one heart beating in two bodies at once - two bodies that also, slowly but certainly, cease to exist as separate entities, and come into being as only one whole being instead. Somewhere in the distance, Dean manages to feel a mixed tinge of guilt and excitement about doing this at a freaking funeral, but the biggest part of him just can't care about it, can't even begin to give a damn about some vague expectations that seem to have nothing to do with the two of them now. The only thing that matters is getting to know Sam through and through, just like this, and even the sex really doesn't matter in comparison to just being close to the other, as if he's waited for this his whole life.

Like through a thick fog, Dean feels his hands fumbling around between them. His fingers drag over the silky shaft of Sam's cock, and it takes him a long while to remember to wrap his fist around it; when he does, Sam lets out another long, low moan, and he digs his face into Dean's neck, his lips and tongue returning there as if intent on driving Dean mad. Like the rest of him wasn't enough - Dean can't help but laugh, breathless and blissful, into the thick air around them, and he moves his fist over Sam's cock over and over again, realising he can't get enough of the feel of him hard under his touches and the texture of his skin and the sticky feel of his precome spreading over his fingers.

"Fuck," he mutters, his ears feeling half deaf to his own voice, "You're so good."

Sam shudders against him, his back arching as he bucks into Dean's touch, and Dean can feel him coming closer to the edge as if feeling it in his own body at the same time. He _knows_ they're just as close, but how he knows it, he can't tell; perhaps it's the shaking of Sam's body, the way his thrusts and the rhythm of his hips are getting more frantic, less controlled, or just the sound of his hitching breath and the choked moans that get trapped in his throat and never quite make it out. Perhaps it's the shivers Dean feels in his own body - his mind's slow, crowded, as he kisses Sam on the mouth again and lets it all wash over him. The pleasure's blinding, but it's only part of what he's feeling. Most of it seems to echo through his flesh from a different source, as if the term _soulmate_ really does concern his _soul_ and not some biological part of him that craves this one individual beside him in this manner. He's never felt anything like it, and once it's over and he begins to feel his own skin separating him from Sam's beating heart, he can't help but laugh.

 _I love you_ , he wants to tell Sam, but the words get caught in his throat and he blushes heavily instead.

It doesn't matter, he realises - Sam already knows, just like he knows that the other loves him the same.

 

* * *

 

It's late in the afternoon when Dean stirs to the annoying sound of his phone vibrating nearby. He moans quietly, reaching blindly towards the source of the rumbling, and Sam shifts beside him, his arm falling over Dean's side. The screen of Dean's phone, however, makes him pull up and tug the corner of the blanket underneath them over his crotch as if to cover up from sight despite the heat that still lingers heavy in the air. The shifting shade of the oak beside the window barely makes a difference.

Sam watches him as he presses the phone against his ear.

"Hey, Dad," he says in a broken voice, and his cheeks flare up as he clears his throat, "Are you on your way here?"

"I am," John's voice returns to him over a weak signal, "Dean, I'm sorry for the radio silence. I would have called you earlier but the phone's been dead for the past 26 hours. I suspect you know already why I sent you there - or at least a part of it."

"Um."

"You've met him by now, haven't you."

Dean turns towards Sam, who watches him keenly; his eyes still seem to blaze like gold, and Dean feels weak inside as he nods, dumbly, as if it made a difference over a phone call.

"I have."

"I wanted to - I had my reasons," John tells him, and Dean can hear him choosing his words very carefully, "I wanted you to meet him before I drop the bomb, I didn't know how else to tell you."

Dean hesitates.

"Tell me what?" he asks then, "That I had a soulmate? I mean, I've always known - I have the marks, right? So it wasn't - I just - Dad. How did _you_ know it?"

A silence. Dean has to check his phone to make sure the call hasn't ended.

"Dad?" he asks awkwardly from the dead line, expecting the call to cut any minute now.

"I knew," John finally replies, and his voice sounds pained now, "Because I was there when he was born, Dean."

"What - why? How?"

Dean can't wrap his mind around it, but a suspicion is growing inside him - one that makes him glance at Sam with wide eyes, and he can feel himself falling pale.

"Dean, I'm sorry. I should have never lied about it, but you wouldn't have understood. There was no way you would have ever accepted losing him if you'd known it - it doesn't matter. After Mary's death, I found out something - you will know, eventually, but for now, you have to understand that I made the choice for his own good. To protect him, Dean. But I understand better now, and I'm afraid - we can't hide the truth from him anymore, and that means that I can't hide it from you, either. Sam's your brother."

For a moment, there's a dead silence. Then, when he realises Dean isn't going to say anything, John continues.

"I know you're angry, and I can't say I don't deserve it, Dean. But you have to understand - I had no other choice. Sam's in danger, and I thought I could spare him from it if he grew somewhere far away from us. I thought I could hide him. I don't think that anymore."

Dean swallows. He tries very hard to find the words, but in the end, the only thing he can do is cut the call. For good measure, he turns off his phone next, and after he's held it in his shaking hand for a minute under Sam's expecting gaze, he throws it across the room and watches the screen shatter. Shaking, he buries his face into his arms and tries to calm down his breathing.

And then Sam's there. His arm wraps around Dean's waist and as much as Dean wants to shove him away, he can't; he can't resist his warmth and his scent and he leans back into him, barely managing to draw breath at all, with the sobs caught inside his throat blocking the whole way through so that even swallowing seems impossible for the time being. He turns his face into Sam's neck and breathes him in to calm down, and Sam holds him tightly for a long while without speaking. Then, he brushes his fingers through Dean's short hair and pulls him back so as to look him in the eye - Dean avoids his gaze, and shame and fear both burn inside him like fire.

"Talk to me," Sam pleads quietly, and Dean manages to glance at him.

The sight of him still takes his breath away, and there's nothing he can do about it. For a moment, a fear of a different kind breaks through the layer of panic about the news: John said Sam was in danger. Shaking, Dean forces him to look at Sam again, now for a longer while. Should he tell him that? Should he tell him _anything_ , or just run like his every instinct is telling him to?

And where the fuck would he go? He can't leave - not anymore. Not now that he's found Sam; any distance between them, he knows, is too much.

Swallowing, he closes his eyes.

"You're -" he starts, but the words get caught in his throat again.

"I'm what?" Sam asks, his voice gentle but scared, and Dean realises the longer he takes, the worse the news will sound.

They can't undo what already happened.

"We're brothers, Sam," he breathes out quietly, opening his eyes and praying that Sam will believe him - he's got no evidence, nothing else but the words of yet another stranger Sam's never met telling him this over the phone.

Sam's brows lift in surprise.

"Who - what - how do you...?" he asks, struggling to get the words through.

His eyes dart towards the broken phone in the corner, and he swallows.

"Your Dad, right?" he asks next, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Dean nods. He turns his gaze towards his lap and he sits there, frozen, waiting for Sam to say something - to pull away his arm, at least. Waiting, really, for Sam to leave him alone: to walk out and never come back again. Seconds like years move past them one by one, and Dean can feel each of them as an ache and a pressure inside his chest.

Then, unexpectedly, Sam lets out a small laugh. He draws back, but he drags Dean with him; they collapse back on the bed, and Sam's still just as beautiful as before when they look at each other again.

"Well," he breathes out in a shaky exhale, "We fucked that up, didn't we?"

Dean swallows. After a frozen silence, he closes his eyes, lets one of the tears he's held back since the phone call trickle down his face, and he laughs, too.

"'s not really our fault, is it? I mean - how could I have known? Or you? How would we - I didn't even know - I had no idea you could be soulmates with your fucking brother, and - God, Sam - I thought..."

He opens his eyes again and he can't fucking stop himself as he kisses Sam again, with shame and longing both scorching him from the inside as he holds him close again.

"I thought you were fucking _dead_ ," he gasps against Sam's lips.

Their foreheads touch, and as Sam breathes him in, Dean can feel him holding back tears, too.

"Brothers, huh," Sam finally mutters, "I - I guess that - changes things?"

Dean shakes his head.  
"We can't undo this, Sam. I don't - how else am I supposed to feel about you? About this? About anything? I don't - I can't - I don't want to let go anymore. Don't wanna lose you."

They watch each other for a while, and then Sam smiles; he pulls Dean back into the kiss, and he still tastes the same as before, and his kiss feels just as right as the first time around.

"You won't," he says; "I promise."

 


End file.
